Regrets of Shattered Hearts
by Whyntir
Summary: No nation can go on and not have regrets. After Sealand finds UK's hidden past, he starts asking questions which brings up the worse nightmares long forgotten by the people, but not the country. USXUK, GerIta, RussXChina, and various other Pairings
1. Much too long

Sealand was so bored waiting for England to come home from the meeting. No one saw him as a country besides Germany and that was for war issues. He groaned in exasperation as he wandered through the two-story, Victorian era house. So old, there must be a lot of things that Arthur kept hidden in locked rooms and hidden passages. He smiled at the thought. Yeah right. The gentleman known as the United Kingdom had nothing hidden. Why would he? He had nothing to hide, well besides his secret fairy friends. But Peter couldn't see them, even when his older brother held them in front of his face.

The young blonde opened door after door before running face first into one that wouldn't budge. Come to think of it, where was he? He looked around himself, but the hall wasn't lit and the same off white color of the house. It was charcoal grey with stained glass windows towering so high above that the colored light didn't reach him. Was this . . . really part of the house! He looked back to the large, oak double doors. The key hole was so old fashioned, like in the 1400's, maybe even farther back.

Peter grinned and pulled out his skeleton key that fit into all these old doors. He pushed it in softly and turned. The lock clicked back so loud that it made him jump back and land on his rear. He grimaced at the contact with the stone floor, rubbing his tailbone. A resounding creak of the door made him look up in surprise, grateful he was already on the ground or he would have fallen again.

The door swung inward, though not invitingly. The hinges were reddish with rust and looked as though they had been slammed shut so many times, they were falling apart. There were candles inside, maybe another spell room? It seemed creepy enough, but something was shining in there. Something gold, a lot of something too. The boy stood slowly and walked in, his nose itching from dust. This room was old and hadn't been used in so very long centuries had passed since someone walked in. The candles were odd, they didn't drip wax and had spiral designs dancing along the sides; probably made by Arthur's magic skills.

Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the dimness and left him in shock. Peter's mouth hung open in awe; there was no way this room belonged to the house! A giant throne made of solid gold, fitted with crimson, velvet cushions on the straight back and bottom. Mountains of gold – SOLID GOLD! – coins lined the three walls. More than coins! Crowns, jewels, sabers, and the beauty of wealth glimmered in the flame light. Some came from France, others from Spain, Netherlands, even the countries along the coast of Africa. The island nation turned and gasped in surprise. An old outfit was hung neatly upon a manikin: A knee length burgundy coat with a deep oak pistol holder crossing the chest from underneath. The pearl-handled gun still inside dating so far back, Peter could only fathom and wondered if it still worked. Under the Jacket was a white shirt with ruffles down the front, giving it a proper guise. Around the waist was a belt holding a sheath with a saber safely tucked inside. A black Captain's hat with a large white feather rested on the head, an eye patch over where the left eye would have been.

"No way," the boy gawked in shock, "He was a pirate? Arthur! Arthur Kirkland!" The small blonde lightly fingered the coarse fabric of the outer garment as though to ensure it was real. Perfectly preserved in this dark room, perhaps surrounded by magic of some kind to keep it fresh, the gold buttons had an old Latin inscription that he couldn't read. He pulled out his cell phone and took a picture of it before looking at his watch. England would be coming home any minute now!

He closed the door as silently as the rustic hinges would allow him and locked it with his key before finding the door he had come out of. As though he had never been there, Sealand left without a sound.

* * *

"Arthur?" Sealand asked as he ate the lunch his brother made for him and sipped the tea.

The young man didn't look up from the South London Press, "What is it Peter?"

"Did you ever do something that you regret with your whole being and wish you could do over?"

"What did you do now?" UK asked exasperated. There had to be a reason for his younger brother to be asking such ridiculous questions.

"Nothing!" the island snapped, "I mean you. You're immortal and all, so you must have done a lot of things, right? Anything you regret more than, well, anything?"

"Of course not! Everything I've done has helped move my country and people to be one of the most feared military powers for centuries and I've fought against evil of many forms! What should I regret!" he demanded.

Peter raised his voice as well, "I'm not talking about the United Kingdom! I'm talking about YOU Arthur! Isn't there something your country side has done that torments your human side? Anything?"

"I don't let human thoughts deviate from what needs to be done."

The small boy sighed and finished his tea before getting up to leave. He made his way out into the garden and looked around. It was beautiful such a deep green that was hidden in thick fog in the wee morning hours. Perhaps they hid the dew of tears unshed until the sun came out to dry them all away. Or maybe he was doing the impossible and growing up too fast. He looked at himself, nope, still just a kid.

* * *

Arthur looked out the window at the small boy as he ran off to play somewhere. The much, much older nation sighed as he felt the hollow beating of his heart that should have died so long ago. It had been put through what no human body should undergo so many times over. It had all seemed like fun and games when he was little, but he never had a choice. He was kept by the king and church to ensure they had domain over everything, including the land.

What was Peter thinking when he asked such a stupid question! Of course he had regrets! Of course. He felt the beating quicken and the empty spot filled out to his stomach. A lump in his throat signaled that he needed to be alone. Slowly, he made his way to the dark hall where all his memories lay for the rest of eternity.

He pulled out the old key and placed it in the lock, it opened easier than he would have expected. It had been so long since he had opened these doors. He pushed them in with both hands and stood upon the threshold of his own history. It wasn't like it was in the history books where the reader felt distanced from the events since they happened so long ago. Looking around at all the spoils he had taken under the name of the queen as a privateer, it felt like yesterday.

* * *

_He stood tall and proud upon the bow of his ship as he sailed towards a Spanish treasury huller on its way home from the New World of America. She was beautiful; the ocean moved her like a dream as the wind filled her vast sails. He took a deep breath to smell that gunpowder mixed with the sweet ocean air. He was getting some gold today and not without the roar of the cannons. The water suddenly exploded as a shot rang out. Spain had spotted them._

"_Man the Cannons boys! We're getting some blood gold tonight!" he called out with his wicked grin._

* * *

He gazed distantly at the uniform he once wore; the brilliant scarlet of his coat and the welcomed weight of a saber at his side. But that was another him, another life all together that he couldn't let touch him now; a part of him he buried to continue living. He sighed and softly ran a hand over the gold buttons.

_Hodie nos imbibo , pro cras nos intereo._

"Would I have changed," he said to the manikin, "If I had known I would live to see so much blood and stain my hands so deep inside?"

* * *

Peter knocked on the door; he hoped the guy could give him some answers. He had been older than England when all this was going on, so he should know quite a bit, right? The door opened slowly, "Hello, _qui est elle ~?_" a sing-song voice called out. The tall blonde nation looked around, "_Quoi!_ No one is here!"

Peter cleared his throat loudly before France even thought of looking down. He smiled, "Oh, Sealand! What a surprise! _Entrez_, come in!" The tall nation herded the boy inside and sat him in a chair placing French sweets in front of him. "So what brings you here young man?"

On cue, Sealand pulls out his cell phone and shows France the picture of the button. It was a little blurry, but still legible. France's eyes widened, "How did you get this _mon petit ami_?"

"I got lost and found an old room; can you tell me what it says?"

"_Hodie nos imbibo, pro cras nos intereo,_" Francis stated fluently, "It's an old pirate thing. '_Today we drink, for tomorrow we die_'. Live like you won't see the sun come morning, _tu sais_? It seems you found our dear UK's secret."

Peter nodded thoughtfully to himself, "Francis. Do you regret anything you've done as a nation?"

"Huh?" the older man looked confused, "Why would-?"

"As a person, do you regret anything you've done as a nation; even if you absolutely _HAD_ to do it? Wasn't there anything you wish you could do again and make better?" the small boy pushed.

The man looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling before closing his eyes in reminisce and sighing sadly, "There isn't one nation who could truthfully say no to that I'm sure. Not even Or dear sweet Arthur."

"I can!" Sealand chimed happily that he was the only nation not to have the weight on his head.

Francis smiled with bitterness in his eyes, "Then be glad you haven't lived long enough to see the agony of a nation."

* * *

Arthur opened another door farther down the dark corridor. His old military uniform of brilliant red stood at attention, waiting for another war. It would never see the horror of warfare again in its existence. The one memory that stood out was the Revolutionary war. He felt the tears prick the back of his eyes. The one who left him crumpled in the mud and rain as he sobbed his heart out, the only one who could make him break. He left that day. He left vowing to never return. No matter how hard he tried, Arthur knew it to be true.

The one person he loved more than himself and anything land, conquest, and money could bring. That one person left him to suffer alone in this world.

The doors were shut behind him; he had no fear of anyone finding him now. He let the tears trickle down his cheeks as he shut his eyes to the harsh reality. He was utterly alone in this world, no one truly wanting him around, not anymore. The one he loved used to look up to him for protection, and he fought so hard to do so. Then he was stabbed in the back and through the heart when he felt he had no need of turning around.

* * *

_A little Alfred lay on the floor drawing pictures with colored wax. He was so young and full of life, but growing at a good rate. Arthur smiled and sipped his tea, savoring the moment. Suddenly a sharp tug on his sleeve made him open his eyes quickly, ready for anything; only little Alfie holding a piece of paper to his chest._

_"Hm?"the blonde man questioned with his eyes, "What is it?"_

_The small colony slipped a piece of paper in front of Arthur. It was a very well done picture of the two of them strolling through the forest. Alfred rested on the other's shoulders and they both were laughing as two butterflies chased each other through the trees. That had been last month._

_Arthur picked up the picture happily, "That's great Alfred! How long did you work on this?"_

"_Since you left the last time. I wanted to make you something so you wouldn't forget me," the boy said softly with a blush._

"_I would never forget you, silly boy," the island nation laughed as he hoisted the small boy on his lap._

* * *

Arthur gazed longingly through glossy eyes at the picture framed on the wall. "I never forgot you Alfred. I haven't forgotten."

* * *

Francis closed the door after Peter as the boy left with a happy wave. When they were so young, they were the same way; him and England, just as naïve. He felt the weights of the past crushing him from his chest down. It took a moment for him to realize that it was his heart. As hollow and empty as ever. He leaned against the door and slid down, holding the space where the beating originated.

'_Just stop, please,'_ he begged it, _'I've already lived too long.'_


	2. Tied by Blood

"_Off with his head!" the crowds screamed in blood lust as Lois XVI stepped towards the guillotine, his words of remorse cut off by the rapid beat of the drum roll. Francis stood with the peasants, his clothing a plain white shirt with soft ruffles down the front and light grey knickers with his worn black shoes. His long blonde hair was pulled back and his blue eyes gleamed with anticipation._

_He was so young, only a teen in the eyes of the world, and he was ready for change. He was certain his people needed this. The government could become like America when he overthrew England! He would be a democracy just like America! The guillotine dropped upon the neck of the king himself. The executioner grabbed the severed head, blood dripping from the wound, and held it for all the crowds to see. He cheered just as loud as the next man. This was the beginning of a bright future!

* * *

_

France jolted awake from his nightmare. Ever since Sealand asked him if he regretted anything, he couldn't get the past away. He bit his knuckles, hoping the red hot pain would remove the blood. The screams and tears. The fear that rested in the hollow chambers in his heart, buried over centuries of faces, angered and saddened; joyous and terrified, even dead.

* * *

_Francis watched the traitors carried away in the open carts. Some stood guilty with faces like masks that released no emotion, their eyes dull in their sockets. Others cried and screamed their innocence loudly for the whole assembly to hear. This used to coerce jeers and tormenting remarks from the onlookers, even the country himself. Now, he gazed with sorrow at the next victims of _Robespierre_'s beloved, blood thirsty pet; the ensanguined blade shimmered in the dying sunlight in utter glee at her new toys to lightly kiss upon the neck with her crimson lips._

_As the guillotine fell, it released a sensual sigh of pleasure before chopping off another skull. She didn't care who was crying under her gleaming iron, only that they were to satisfy her thirst for a little while. Innocent and guilty; young and old; beautiful and ugly, all feared the raven erected in the town square. The thought tormented him: Should he fear it too?

* * *

_

He threw the book that had lulled him to sleep in any direction, it just so happened to be at his large mirror hanging on the wall. The glass shattered on impact and rained to the floor in shards like stars falling from the abyss. The old nation held his pillow close and sobbed into the softness.

* * *

A knock on the door, and it was lunch time too! America groaned as he set his hamburger down on the wrapper and went to answer the caller who was knocking a little louder now. "Who could so rudely be interrupting me meal?" the tall man asked himself, but with enough volume to get through the cherry wood door.

"_Just open the door you bloody git!"_ the person from the other side shouted back. Alfred winced; greeeat, it was UK. He opened the door slightly with an annoyed frown on his face, but it quickly faded as he saw England in the worse shape since the longest time.

"Hey, UK, what's the matter? You look like you just went through hell and back man," America stated, allowing his shorter counterpart into his three-story house.

England looked around slowly; it was such a pity it couldn't stay that sweet little log cabin that he built for the boy with his bare hands. All his work for nothing it seemed. He wouldn't let his heart weaken so quickly though. Not yet, and especially not in front of America of all people. "Alfred . . . ?"

"Yeah, what is it?"

"Do you," he paused and took a deep breath, "Do you regret anything you have done as a country?"

The American scoffed and shook his hand, "Pfft, why would I? I got to kick you ass a few times and that was certainly worth it. And then I totally saved you guys during both World Wa-."

"I mean as Alfred F. Jones! Does Alfred regret anything his country side of him has done!" the Brit snapped back.

The taller nation looked confused, "Are you okay Arthur? Where did that question come from?"

"Just . . . asking."

"Well, like I said, what should I regret?" the man in the glasses responded after a short silence.

The knife still buried in the Englishman's chest twisted just a little bit more, the pain bringing fresh brine to sting the back of his eyes. _'I refuse to show weakness! Not in front of him! He's almost as horrid as that wanker France!'_ Arthur resolved in his mind. But how he wanted to hold that small child again and feel his love. He needed to be loved.

Alfred shifted a little uncomfortably in the silence. Obviously he was lying, but no way would he let that on to England of all people; his rival as much as he was an ally just across the pond that was the Atlantic. Were those tears glossing Arthur's eyes? The older man suddenly stood straight as though called to military attention, "Alright then. I guess I came all this way for nothing; or maybe not. I'll see you at the next World Meeting America."

"Uh . . . yeah, I guess. See you UK."

* * *

Walking over the bridge back to his home down the way, England could only think of how it used to be. The twisting daggers of lies, betrayal, love unreturned, and the torment of living as such. Back on his side, he stood once more before his moderate house. It wasn't always so modest. It once used to flaunt off his winnings he made from his privateer escapades. The gold and silver that was worth ten times what it was now used to be all what he lived for. That, and the blood of his enemies as he gutted them through with the thin blade; but once he became a man of the Queen's court he gave it all to her. Maybe if he . . . his fist slammed against the trunk of a tree in his garden, splitting his knuckles. Nothing would work anymore; America was never going to be his again. No, Alfred would never be his.

* * *

America stared after the other nation until he was no longer in sight before noticing in shock the rapid pounding in his ears that sounded like running soldiers; boys running through mud with heavy packs on their backs and muskets in their hands as they ran towards the red in the trees.

* * *

"_This way guy, quietly now; we don't want that old Brit hearin' us 'til we already shot some good lead in them," a younger Alfred whispered to his guerilla troops. They smiled in amusement, most were around his age and enjoyed his dark humor. The Red Coats rounded the corner and headed to the town, Arthur Kirkland at the head._

_The green eyed man stared ahead of him, focusing only on his objective. Yes, this was Alfred Jones who he had raised and grown to love from the moment he laid eyes on the baby nation. Why? Why did that git just _HAVE _to be independent! He'd lift the taxes if he could, but he was in financial trouble of his own due to the French and Indian War where he _SAVED_ Alfred and gained his brother for them to meet. Suddenly a loud explosion split the air. He turned at the confirming cry as one of his men fell to the muddy earth dead, a hole through his chest. Then the Americans let all hell rain loose. Musket balls hailing from their guns and killing his men._

"_Fire at the trees! They're in the trees!" he commanded his remaining force. They loaded and fired in succession before reloading and firing again. Discipline was key to this, without a doubt._

_Alfred saw the flash of his eyes and fired without much thought, his heart pounding the adrenaline through his veins and letting his enticed muscles do the thinking. A sharp cry of agony reached his dull mind. The realization drops as an anchor, sinking a hollow emptiness down to his stomach._

_Arthur Kirkland lay bleeding on the muddy floor, a gun wound to his thigh. The crimson did mix in with the uniform. The blood mixed.

* * *

_

The United States held his chest firmly, tears in his eyes. "Stop running," he whispered to the rampant drum, "We won a long time ago."

* * *

_England stood alone before the militia of the United States. Alfred saw the hate on his face, but the agony in his eyes; that was the only way he could express pain. The bandage was still tied around his leg stained in blood, even though he was fully healed. America stepped forward, it was about time to end this._

"_England! It's over, you lost. Just give up," he said so strong, but inside he was pleading. _'I won't kill you Arthur. I won't.'

"_You stupid git! After everything I gave to you. Everything I did for you! I protected you and kept you safe all these years and this is how you repay me!" the British man shouted as the tears glossed his eyes. He ran to his former colony and held his gun at eye level to the much taller man._

'Pull the trigger,' _Alfred thought sadly, _'Be strong and shoot.' _He could see the older man crumbling under his gaze. A part of him wanted England to win, to prove he was still needed to protect him. But that was Alfred, not America._

"_I - . . . – I can't!" Arthur fell to his knees in the mud as the rain poured from the sky mixing with the Englishman's tears as he sobbed at the other's feet, "I can't do I you git. I can't do it."_

'Why? Why couldn't you have shot me?'

"_You used to be . . . so big."

* * *

_

America looked back out the window though there was nothing there, _'But I lost so much more.'

* * *

_

France tapped the knocker softly and waited for an answer, but no one came. He looked around nonplussed. Usually Italy was home at this time and there was nowhere else for him to be. As busy a Nation was, they had nothing to do more than half the time. It was just sign here, stamp there, write something extremely diplomatic that you don't mean one ounce of what you say. Just whatever the Boss wanted at the time to butter up an ally or degrade an enemy.

He knocked again, this time hearing a small voice yelling how sorry he was in Italian. Usually Francis would comment on how cute the younger nation was, but the nightmare last night seemed to dampen his usually jubilant mood. The door burst open with a half naked Northern Italy in the door way panting with a bruise on his forehead. He obviously fell down the stairs on his way to the door. Luckily he was wearing pants this time and not just a shirt.

"_Mi dispiace_, I'm sorry! Ah; Big brother France? Wh-wh-what are doing here _fratello_, is something wrong? Italy doesn't like it when France is looking so sad," the brunet muttered, worried.

Francis waved his hand, "No, no, _Je vais bien_, it's nothing. Truly. Mind if I come in?"

Italy's house was two stories with a shed off to the side that had the sign Sicily. Romano was having a _siesta_ under the apple tree in the back, so obviously Feliciano was asleep upstairs. The floor was bright, polished cherry wood with colorful carpets from Persia and as far as Africa. The furniture was plush and the best quality. All made to impress of course. He _was_ a romantic country after all.

"So what brings Big Brother France here today?" the Italian asked sitting on the couch with a soft grunt. Must have hurt his back as well; but the most obvious thing was his brown eyes opened with a serious gleam, despite his usual child voice.

"There has been . . . a question brought to me," he said slowly, attempting to find the best wording possible, "I was wondering what you'd make of it."

"Why me?"

Questions were hovering all around it seemed, "Because you are one of the most honest people, and countries, I know. I have full confidence in trusting your answer _mon ami_. Am I wrong in believing so?"

"Tell me your question and perhaps I can answer both," the young man smiled sweetly, but it seemed horribly out of place with his austere eyes.

"H-have you . . . ever regretted something you've done? The actions you committed as a country; does your human side hold any remorse?"

"_Si_. I think about the past often, though many wouldn't believe me. I guess I hide it a little too well, _Ve ~_?" Feliciano asked with a sigh.

That was a shocker to Francis who had known the lad since he was a small child and always crying and needing his help. Ever since infancy, he was always so carefree, but there was one time when those brown eyes gleamed in venom. In the heat of World War Two, garbed in the Nazi uniform of Fascism in the northern part of the country. Mussolini had changed him so drastically, how could Francis ever believe that the Italy now would be the Italy of then? Come to think of it, he changed as well.

England changed

Germany changed

Russia Changed

America Changed

China

Italy

Japan

And so many more.

"Th-thank you for your honesty Feli. You've helped me, much more than you could imagine."

"It's good to hear," the younger nation smiled, his voice the high chime as before and eyes closed to the light, "Is that all Big Brother France wanted?"

Was it? Should he ask? "Yeah, that was all. Au _revoir mon petit Feli. Et je vous remercie_."


	3. Unexpected Knowledge

Rain pelted the window panes of the vast house, Feliciano stared out the warped droplets as the slowly slid down the glass. Heaven's Tears is what the church once called it. The tears that God hadn't wept for millennia over his lost children, and the ones dying, and the ones who suffer more than their fair share. That's what the church said, but that was so very long ago when it rained often and the spilling of blood was an everyday ordeal. But wasn't everyone a child of God; Catholic or not? So why had the church murdered so many people, even those who had bibles and were devout Christians, though not agreeing with the exact translation and teaching of it.

The Italian sighed sadly as the tapping came louder, faster than before. Maybe this wasn't God crying, but the collective tears of all the peoples who cried from pain, frustration, fear, and depression; the tears of those in mourning and the ones for those never born. Maybe God soaked up all their tears in the clouds and had it rain over the world so everyone knew they were never alone in their struggles. The Northern country of Italy smiled slightly, running a finger over one of the teardrops that slid down slowly.

'_This one belongs to Francis,'_ he thought with a smile, maybe more.

"Feliciano, what are you doing?" the blonde man inquired coming up behind his small lover and patting him on the head.

The Italian turned and kissed Ludwig softly, "I was thinking Lu-Lu; about the past.

"Feli- . . ." he growled in warning.

"I know, I know. We promised to forget it as countries. But I'm looking at it as Feli. As me ~," he placed another kiss on Germany's lips to keep more protesting on hold. He liked Ludwig even before the First World War He was so strong and tall with an aura of self assurance that the brunet had admired for so very long. In World War Two it was even stronger, but it hurt all the same.

* * *

_Italy ran after his idol, "Germany! Rallenta, please slow down ~!" How horrible that he wasn't use to the long strides that he had tried to imitate. He felt his self-esteem diminish as the taller nation stopped for him with a soft sigh. He hated that sigh; it meant he wasn't good enough. He paused beside the blonde, taking some short breaths to get his heart to slow (but it happened to be counter-productive). "I'm sorry __Germania, I'll keep up better. I promise!"_

"_It's okay," he talked down to the brunet, "Just don't fall too far behind." The way his eyes accused, it stung the wounds in Italy's heart._

* * *

"Ludwig?" Feliciano asked into the dark, but he could feel the warm arms around his waist and the body against his bare back. The heat was welcoming to the sore bruises down his spine, made from his blonde's sweet lips.

The German shifted himself closer to the smaller man, but his breath was so even in sleep. Italy smiled softly at remembering what it was like their first night together, but his lips slowly fell at what happened afterwards.

_Feliciano breathed hard, his heart pounding as he came down from his high. Slight tears at the corners of his eyes glistened in the moonlight that seeped through the window and over their sweat covered bodies. The blonde lay atop him, placing sweet butterfly kisses from his temple to his jaw._

"_G-Germania . . . why? Why me?" he asked in a soft, hoarse voice from all the screams and moans._

_Ludwig pulled the curl of hair eliciting a loud cry of arousal, "Whether you believe it or not, you are valuable to me; more than just an ally. You know this is political and all, but you, Feliciano-."_

"_But you always smile at Japan. Non capisco."_

"_Beenden Sie denken," the man laughed before attacking Feliciano's lips._

* * *

"_Mi dispiace! I'm sorry! I can't keep this up Ludwig! Mussolini is dead and my government is falling apart. I have to go."_

"_Traitor!" Germany shouted pulling his gun out, "How dare you betray me! You were on their side this whole time!"_

_Tears streamed down Italy's cheeks, "Non . . . No I wouldn't! I'd never! Ti amo Ludwig!"_

"_Don't you even say that! Treason! Traitors to the Führer and the Fatherland die!"_

* * *

Feliciano snuggled closer to the German beside him, begging the images to leave his mind. He was with Ludwig now, and the present was all that mattered.

* * *

America stared at the blue sky above him as he sat on a bench; the next World Meeting was this weekend. Two more days and all the countries were arriving to make it in time. The warm breeze tousled his hair lightly and caressed his cold cheeks. A smile wanted to play on his lips, but the thoughts that he couldn't shake for the past few days kept his lips in a sad frown.

"The weather is so warm, but you look so cold America ~. Is something the matter?" a childish voice chimed behind him. He turned to see Russia smiling his usual, innocent grin with his hands behind his back and rocking on his toes. Even in the summer climate of New York, he still wore his heavy jacket and scarf.

The North American country's frown deepened, "Why are you so interested?"

"Just am ~. You look upset, preoccupied and the likes ~."

"Well . . . I am, I guess," he murmured softly, "Do you . . . ever think about the past? Like, reflect on what you've done and regretted your decision?"

The tallest country looked up at the sky as though asking God the answer, "Yes. But that comes with our position. I've come to terms with it."

"That probably explains your willingness to kill so many people."

"Not true," Russia exclaimed offended, "One must remember the past, but keep it in perspective! The past isn't the present!"

"What do you regret?" America could help the question.

The smile was gone; "A brief answer then," the voice was slightly deeper, "My existence. I mourn over my life in general and sometimes wish I never had to be burdened with the task of caring for the world's most dissatisfied children. Sometimes it needs to be done with the harsh blow of death, and I admit many times I dealt the worse punishment on those not guilty of wrongdoing."

That was harsh, even for Russia. Oddly enough, Alfred never had to specify Ivan Braginski over the Russian Federation. "How did you know which side of you I was asking?"

"Well America ~," the smile returned and the voice regained the bell-like pitch, "There is a major difference between Russia and the man Ivan. So should I go?"

"One more question . . . for Ivan."

"Go ahead."

"How do you go on? You're one of the oldest nations but you keep going and living, how?" he had to know how to live with himself.

"A little speech I tell myself," the smile was more genuine, "The Past was yesterday and we have yet to turn the clocks back to fix our wrongs. The future is infinite and worth the wait, since we have all the time in the world. The present leaves us every second we waste. So leave the past, wait for the future, live the present."

"I see."

"I have to get back to the hotel. I'll see you_. Пока!_ ~," the Russian commented with a nod of his head before waving and walking back, singing a song in his native tongue.

"So I need to keep living," Alfred thought aloud and looked back at the tranquil sky, "I never would have thought about that one Ivan. You are more sane than we give you credit for."

* * *

"_I swear this to be the truth! The Führer is going to attack you after the battle with Britain ends!" the German soldier exclaimed in chains. He had been tortured and his story remained the same. But that was so ridiculous! Hitler would never be so foolish as to turn on the treaty!_

_Stalin growled in rage, "Lies! You poison the air with you devilish lies!"_

"_No," his worse mistake, "I swear this. I'm from the Prussian Front; my orders are to attack the Motherland but my conscious doesn't sit well with it. Please, you have to believe me!"_

"_Get this traitor out of my sights!"_

_The country's leader stormed out of the room while Ivan was left alone with the prisoner and an assault rifle. He knelt beside the man, "Is this true?"_

"_Yes. I swear it on my blood!"_

"_I believe you," he spoke softly as he ran a finger down the man's cheek before pulling away and cocking the gun, "I'll make this painless."_

_The blood was all over the room and his clothes, dripping in such a dark crimson that it appeared inky black in the gloom. So much blood pooled from the corpse, good thing he decided to believe him. Now, the only question was if he could convince Comrade Stalin of the attack, but he knew it would be no use._

* * *

He touched the Gold Star on his chest from the Soviet Union. "Sometimes the past needs to be there, always," he said to himself, "to keep us from doing it again and reliving the guilt a second time."


	4. Romantic Eden

Russia sat beside China on a bench in a park as they watched passersby going about their daily lives. They lived like they would go on forever, but those who did live forever asked why. What was the point in their existence, why were they born? Russia cursed America in his mind for making him think. China, leaning on the larger country's shoulder, looked up to the unsmiling face.

"What's wrong, 伊万?" Yao inquired, looking up from under his long eyelashes.

The violet eyes softened and a weak smile returned, "Just thinking too much. Yao?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you regret the things you've done as a country that hurt so many people? Your own, and those around you?"

The Chinese man sat up, "Who brought this into your head!"

Ivan sighed and pet the flowing black hair, slyly pulling it out of the pony tail and letting it loose around his Love's face. It was soft and glossy, framing the full features perfectly, giving him the most beautiful complexion. "It's nothing. I'm sorry I asked. I didn't mean to offend," he nuzzled China's neck softly, "No need to be angry _Любовь_."

"You know Vanya," Yao sighed pushing himself closer, "I'm not being put off."

"_Он был просто вопрос, я спросил. Кажется довольно несет, вот и все. Я просто допроса, но вам не нужно ответить."_

"_我猜出我們當中沒有人能說我們有沒有遺憾，但我們不應該告訴他們的大風。" _

Russia and China sat on the bench as the sun set, thinking of the past. The red of the sky reminded them of the blood shed for pointless reforms and the death they brought to themselves more than their enemies.

* * *

Canada lay beside his lover on the couch as they watched 2012. Not the most romantic of shows, but they weren't totally into the sappy, smoochy stuff. Everything had a degree of romance in it, so watching people kiss at the most inopportune times was enough to satisfy their daily dose. The film was coming to an end when he felt the man behind him pull him in close by his waist.

"Gilbert! The film just NOW ended," he laughed at the soft lips on his neck which became sweet moans.

The Prussian smiled, "I know, but that means I'm no longer preoccupied and can focus solely on you."

"Where's Avatar! I need some back up!"

Matthew made a grab for the DVD but the albino pulled him back, tickling him on his ribs. Laughing hysterically, he twisted to get away while Gilbert twisted to keep a hold of the younger man. They tussled for a while on the couch, laughing like girls in a pillow fight, but free.

* * *

America could hear them the next room over and felt tears prick his eyes. His twin brother found love in the most unlikely places, but he knew where his was the whole time. Damn this American pride! His soldiers were proud to serve elsewhere in Europe during the Second World War. They were proud to give aid to those who needed it under the command of foreign officers!

Why couldn't he suck up the pride; because America could never give in, but it wasn't America who was in love. The laughter was light from the joint room and they weren't getting it going, but having a good time being in love.

"_Ah, Matty?" _Prussia's voice waltzed under the door and to his ears. Alfred's breath caught in his throat.

"_Hm? What is it?" _Canada sighed, catching his breath from the tickle war.

"_I love you."_

"_I love you too. Forever and always, right?"_

"_Forever and always."_

The dull throbbing in his heart suddenly came to life. It was rhythmic and cold, but hot and fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird. It had felt this way once before. It had been so very long ago that he could honestly call it another life altogether.

* * *

_Alfred knelt down beside the broken country. The Revolutionary war had ended and there England sat, sobbing into his hands as he let his heart leave. The young country wanted to hold him. To tell him it would be okay like the Englishman used to do for him. But he couldn't._

_No matter how hard his heart pushed for his arms to slide around the shattered soul of his rival, his brain would not read the signals. The tears behind his eyes stung and the lump in his throat made it hard to breathe, but nothing happened. Not a tear fell or a cry escape his lips. He could only do one thing to make the organ in his chest stop._

_He stood straight and tall, looking down on the defeated, then turned on his heels and walked away. He could hear the sobs of the one he loved as he turned his back to them._

_And his heart died._

* * *

Was it too late now? To tell the one he loved that it would all be okay? After two hundred years, did he still have time to say what he meant to say so long ago?

* * *

England sat in his room, his heart as heavy as ever. With his last visit to America, he got his answer. His love was not returned. That was made so very, harshly, clear. He let the tears roll down his cheeks in the agony of his heart. He had seen Russia and China together, simply sharing each other's company in the silence that only lovers could understand. Soft murmurs of affection would pass between them on the softest of winds. And the touch of skin on skin was the greatest warmth a soul would need.

But no one sat with him. No one murmured their affections of him on God's soft winds. And no one, no one, would ever touch him the way China would be caressed by Ivan's warm hand. He was alone. So utterly alone, and lost in his emotions. Who could he turn to?

* * *

"Nippon?" China asked as he tied his hair up in a towel after getting out of the shower. He stepped out of the bathroom in a traditional Chinese robe. He shared a room with his little brother while waiting for the meeting to begin in two days. Or maybe he should say one because it was so very late.

Japan didn't look up from his puzzle on the coffee table, "What is it Yao?"

"Do you have any regrets? As Kiku, though. No country regrets its decisions to stand by its boss, of course. But as Kiku Honda, do you have any events that you wish you could relive and do the way you want them to?" he asked.

Now the smaller nation looked up, "Why would you ask such a question out of nowhere?"

"Sorry. I was a little offended when Ivan asked me, but it makes sense now, after meditating on the thought. If we forget what we've done, or don't look back at what we did WRONG we are more apt to repeat the same thing again! And then we'd be banging our heads against the wall asking how could we have fallen into the same trap twice!"

The Japanese man pondered the statement over the finished work of his puzzle. It was a picture of paradise. Where everybody and everything was in perfect harmony, where no country separated the people who smiled in their Eden. Nor did the troubles of the past weigh on their minds. But he wasn't in that picture; nor was Yao, Ivan, Alfred, Francis, Feliciano, Ludwig, or Arthur. So did that mean they had to suffer to ensure this Utopia? Maybe if they remembered and could circumvent another painful event, they could reach this place.

"I think your boyfriend may have stumbled on to something big. Where did he get the notion from?" he asked pouring all his thoughts into the achievement of what he had just panned out.

Yao shrugged, "I asked, but he avoided the question. We could ask now."

"How about tomorrow when we are all refreshed and have a calm mind."

"Agreed," the elder man nodded, "Night Kiku."

"Good night Ni-san. And Ni-san?"

"Yes?"

"The answer is yes, I do have many regrets."

* * *

There was a knock on the door, but it was the middle of the night! France sighed, perhaps it was best he had something to do. Sleep had been eluding him these past few days. He rolled out of bed and slipped into his fluffy blue slippers before answering the hotel door.

"_Oui? Qui est-il?"_

"Francis, I need some rational help." America stood in his doorway with a bashful expression and rubbing his arm.

"What type of help Alfred?"

"Well . . . uh . . . the, um, romantic sort."

* * *

**Russian Translation: "It was just a question I was asked. It seems to be pretty liable, that's all. I was just questioning, but you don't need to answer."**

**Chinese Translation: "Well, I guess none of us can say we have no regrets, but we shouldn't tell them to the winds."**


End file.
